Gina, I am

Yesterday my husband and two children walked along the Little Italy Market in Philly. It is an industrial area full of cultural vibrancy. It is always an interesting experience to walk the streets of Philadelphia, especially this area as it conjures up memories of my past. The sidewalks  are usually filled with both Mexican and Italian street food vendors on small tables filled with fresh produce, baked goods and crafts. There are butcher shops, even a shop that sells live chickens. It is a glimpse old world and has evolved through generations into being a tourist stop.  It is similar to most riverside scenes in cities across the US but with a flavor that only a Rocky movie scene can convey.

We treated ourselves to a “Volcano Hot Chocolate” poured and crafted bar side  by the “Cannoli King” himself. The chocolate was over-priced but each of us appreciated having experienced the pocket-sized cafe with nostalgia covering the walls and ceiling. The owner is known as the Cannoli King. 🤣

A few steps outside the cafe we encountered a Mexican woman sitting in a chair, covered with a blanket. She had a shopping cart with a gigantic steaming pot of tamales. “$2.50 each.” she said. I asked what kind and she told me they were chicken. Not my favorite but Lawson, my son, immediately pulled out the cash to try one. Always up for a culinary adventure, he indulged, admitting later he preferred spicier versions.

We continued walking the sidewalks until we reached a place selling barbacoa.  Tyler, my husband was curious. Lawson noted the sign on the rustic door indicating the establishment had been awarded the James Beard Award. We were sold!

We walked in and there was something special about this place. Not in the decor. It was simple. Diner tables. Small bar in the back. A soccer game being streamed  on the big screen in the back.

We were greeted by a woman who spoke very limited English. She offered us each a taco wrapped in blue corn tortillas from a man carving meet behind the counter. In front of the counter, we were invited to top the tacos with an array of toppings and sides. Salsas, cilantro, onions,  Cucumber slices and radishes.

The woman asked  me if I wanted one and I politely declined. The carving of the meat was offensive to me in the same way as gyros from a food truck.

I asked the woman where she was from and she told me she was from Mexico. She replied “Soy Mexicana.”

I  replied “Me too! I’m Mexican. But I was born in Texas.”  Somehow, I know I sounded like Will Ferrel as Buddy the Elf in my excitement. However,  with each word in our conversation, I began to feel like a fraud.  Lawson refers to me as “a white-washed Mexican” all the time.

“My name is Gina.”

I have not spoken that sentence is decades!

Gina was a nickname I was given as a child. Later, as a college student, I became frustrated with having to explain the discrepancy between my nickname and my official documents. Since then, I have ALWAYS introduced myself as Jennifer. I was taken back by own introduction.

I continued to chat with her, much to my family’s dismay. I tend to talk to strangers and engage others in a way that makes my introverted family feel uncomfortable. Oh, the stories they could tell!

I sat down with my crew and ordered more tacos. I ordered steak tacos. We learned that the tacos they had eaten were lamb, braised as a whole animal and then carved.

Being thankful I had not eaten the lamb, I jokingly teased with my family about the potential for them to later have belly aches.

We watched as tourists and locals came in and out grabbing a bite for their walk and some sitting inside to dine.  The same woman,  presumably the owner, was greeting everyone. Another woman was making tortillas by hand and looked exhausted. I asked if I could take photos. I had many memories of grandmothers, aunts and my own mother making tortillas and I felt drawn into the moment. The woman politely agreed. I quickly snapped a few photos and walked away.

Later, I felt ashamed of taking their photos. As I unwrapped the day I something in my soul struck me.  I felt guilt. I felt guilty for making the woman feel exposed. I felt guilty because she is me. She is me without the privilege that has been afforded me.  I am not wealthy. I am not  highly intelligent.  Rather simple, I am. But I have moved beyond the generation of hard work-my -fingers-to -the-bone labor.

I look forward to generations after me and my bloodline to reach a higher level of prosperity and accomplishment. I wish for an easier life for my children and my grandchildren. I hope that I doing what I can to help the next ones in line.

We paid for our tacos. We thanked them for their hospitality.

Just as we approached the door, the woman/owner called out to me and I immediately turned in answer to hearing my name. I am still Gina.

“Gina! For you!” She said proudly as she handed me a brand new umbrella. She smiled. I was elated. I thanked her and we walked away.